Fic Post: Live No Life
12/11/06 07:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Live No Life
Author:Roxymissrose
Pairing:Lex/Clark
WIP:: 1/4
Rating:PG
Spoilers: none
Word Count:5468
Summary: Lex and Clark have such influence on each other, whether they know it or not.
Notes: This is the answer to the "A Clexian Tale" challenge. I finally answered it, almost six months later....
So dear I love him that with him all deaths I could endure, without him live no life.
John Milton
I
At five o clock in the afternoon, on an October Monday, a particularly brutal attack on the Metropolis international bank takes place. Hostages are taken, and shot—in front of cameras. They are prodded and bullied and frightened until they are screaming when the bullets smash into their foreheads.
One, two—a grandmother, a housewife, a waiter, the manager of the fast food place one block away…dead. The other hostages are frozen in horror and bladder emptying fear. The masked bandits—murderers--are entirely too amused.
Superman is called.
Superman is there in minutes, from the opposite side of the state. He comes ready to help. Do the justice thing.
He’s in the air over the bank in another minute, and bursting through the ceiling, flying at the hostage takers, in minute more. He smiles at the gun they train on him, and the lead bullets that explode out of the gun at high velocity strike him harmlessly in the chest.
The lead vaporizes on contact. The kryptonite slivers inside the lead casing lodge in the muscle of his chest. The one that kills Superman drills in under his ear as the impact throws his head back, and to the side.
There’s a terrible amount of blood, according to the remaining hostages.
“He fell to the ground, he made this terrible noise and—and--died.” This the gist of the interview that runs on all channels, all day long, for days. “He bled so much and dropped in front of me, and I could see the...the light—just go out of him, you know? Like he deflated, but not really. He just wasn’t in there anymore. So young—you know? He looked so young, not like this big super guy, you know? Almost…a kid…” At that point the bank teller being interviewed rushes off camera, and the sound cuts off. So his face becomes the most recognized face in the world, and it’s not forever linked to the sound of him throwing up violently behind the bank manager’s desk...
******
II
Lex Luthor. Businessman. Entrepreneur. Researcher. Killer.
Killer. Well, certainly not by his own hand, not anymore…but if Lex raises an eyebrow and frowns at, say, an obstinate individual, who stands in the way of a goal he wishes to achieve, a meddlesome someone he wishes to be rid of, it’s more than likely the wish will be made reality. Lex’s people do their level best to make Lex happy. His happiness is the sole business of great many thankful to be on his payroll.
Right now, Lex is not happy. Lex is furious. Lex is nearly speechless with rage. Already men in his employ scour the city, the country—looking for the perpetrator of this deed, this—abomination. The entire underworld knows—Superman belongs to him. Belonged.
He watches the footage playing in an endless, endless loop. The Man of Steel crashing to the ground in a bloody, ungraceful heap—the doughy young man gasping out the story of his death. Lex hates him most of all.
Decides not to kill him.
Instead, he wanders around the luxurious penthouse that he shares with his laptop. He wanders back and forth in front of the glass, floor to ceiling patio doors and thinks. Superman never set foot on that patio, never appeared at the glass doors. Never tried to kill him, not in the way Lex tried to kill Superman. Maybe he should have. Maybe he wouldn’t have looked so—defenseless, apparent invulnerability aside…
Time for action was at hand. “The time for talking is over. I want a thorough investigation,” he says into a slim black phone pressed against his cheek. “Thorough. You understand the meaning? I want to know how these bastards acquired the kryptonite—only myself and the government have access to kryptonite—and even the government has to come to me.”
“Yes, we’re starting from the inside, and working outward.” the voice responds. “If there’s information to be had, you’ll have it…but…Lex. There’s been no word yet. Not even a rumble.”
“Interesting. Well, you have more means of gathering information than the media. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Lex.”
Lex lays the phone on the table and thinks. Why? More importantly, how could Superman have succumbed to such a…stupidly simple plan?
He takes a meandering stroll about and ends up back at the little wet bar tucked in a cabinet at the rear of his office. He makes and swallows a drink. Several, while sitting at his desk and thinking—unproductively. *Shit. Shit.* Lex stands up and slams his glass down, slopping a little liquid over the glass tabletop.
*****
III
// Clark Kent, reporter for the Daily Planet—a well know and respected reporter for the Daily Planet, has been missing for two weeks. He’s presumed dead, along with ten others, caught up in the storm that ripped across the Atlantic seaboard, tore miles of beach away in Atlantic City and capsized the fishing boat bearing the lost. //
The authorities search for a while, but finally admit that the bodies are unrecoverable There’s a plaque on the boardwalk a month later, to commemorate the bravery of those who basically, were stupid enough not to evacuate when told to, or those whose makeup demanded they be there, to offer help to their neighbors any way they could...
Human nature.
****
IV
/// Lex dithered. It was a thorn in his side. It made him—crazy. But still…dither. He drove to the office, and worked on the way there. He worked in the office, pointedly did not look nervously at the phone. He worked. He sowed the seeds of empires. He plowed under those stupid enough not to know that growth always involved discomfort, progress involved a little pain. And he dithered. ///
Lex Luthor strolled through Metropolis Park, enjoying a surprisingly warm breeze for late November. There were a few days left before Thanksgiving, and of course the Christmas ornaments hung like pendulous garish fruit from every possible protrusion. Lex wasn’t letting that destroy his mood, however.
His mood had been sour to begin with.
He briefly contemplated stumbling and clutching his chest, just for the amusement value of seeing the all the men blended into the crowd come running to earn their paychecks…but that was beneath him. Lex stopped, and here and there through the park men and women stopped with identical looks of greyhound readiness. He glanced about. People paid no attention whatsoever to their surroundings. The crowd moved on, oblivious to well trained death…except for one young man, probably college aged, who looked startled and nervous. Hmm. Lex made a note. Recruitment can never start too early.
Finally, he took a deep breath, and dialed a number he hated to admit he’d never forgotten. A number he could dial in his sleep, still. The phone rang and rang, and at last a voice came on the line.
“Yes?” Flat, unemotional.
“Martha, I…” Bloody fucking HELL! Why the fuck was he a child again?
“Yes. Lex. Mr. Luthor. Can I help you?”
“Lex, please. I—I—hoped that I could help you in some--”
“Did you do it?” A whip crack of hatred, so bitter, so sharp, Lex flinched involuntarily.
“No! No. I…would not have the unutterable gall to call you, if…I’m sorry. Truly sorry. I know that Clark…Clark helped out so much after his father died. I just wanted to offer…my help.”
“Well. Now you have. And I have much to attend to and…” Her voice hitched.
“Martha—I never--”
“Lex, I have to go now. Thank you,” she said. “It’s a small measure of…comfort… to know my son’s former best friend didn’t orchestrate his death. No matter what you’ve become, I know you’d never have called other wise. It’s not in you to…gloat.”
Lex stared at the silent phone cradled in his palm. It occurred to him that they weren’t talking about Clark. He rolled his shoulders and watched the swift passage of gray clouds across the sun. The air smelled like snow, and he was briefly sad, briefly missed his mother.
Well.
Martha knew he knew. How? He strode along briskly, gravely nodding to the people who recognized him. That meant Clark knew. Lex stopped and let one of the bodyguards open the limo door for him, slid inside. He leaned his head back against the warm soft leather of the seat. He sighed.
Clark had known.
*****
V
Lex is flying back to the States from a week long series of meetings in Shanghai that had been exhausting and much less than entertaining. It had, however, been lucrative, and he’s in less of a foul mood than usual. The lights in the cabin are dim, the scotch is excellent, and he’s just about to slip his shoes off and relax on the seductively beckoning bed when his phone rings.
He doesn’t recognize the caller and considers transferring it to his aide but something makes him answer.
“Mr. Luthor?” an electronically altered voice speaks his name, even altered it sounds impatient. Lex forces a tone of amused effrontery. “How did you get this number? I obviously don’t know you. Unless this is a prank—
“We have something you may want to buy. Proof of it’s worth will be shipped to LexCorp in a few days.”
Lex tosses the silent phone to the bed. He hates mystery. Hates it. He especially hates those who insist on being pointlessly mysterious. Pointless drama is a crime.
There’s been no results from his investigations. Blood has been spilled, but occasionally results demand a little sacrifice. He knows his employees have worked hard, he knows that they think they’ve left no stone unturned. But he knows without a doubt this phone call was about that investigation.
There’s a distinct possibility that the empty memorial being constructed in Metropolis Square was going to be tenanted after all. Lex shrugs off his jacket, loosens his tie, and lays down on the vast yielding surface of the bed. He lays splayed out, legs wide, arms wide, staring at the ceiling. He remembers lying like this on the rough barn floor, and Clark walking around him, reciting his lesson, laughing down into his face…his eyes were so green and warm then, so full of…well, friendship…friendship. He sighs. Even after all these years…he presses the heel of his hand against the thickening length trapped against his hip. God.
*****
VI
“Lex. Why are you calling here?”
“Martha. Martha…I just. I don’t know.”
“Let me guess. You feel alone; you looked around and found you have no friends and…guilt is a huge motivator, Lex. Just as big as greed.”
“Do you think that’s what I am? Greedy?”
“I saw the way you looked at Clark. Back then.”
He hung up and methodically, violently, trashed his office.
/// Outside the mahogany office doors, his secretary pensively listened to the sound of crystal smashing, fabric tearing, the punch-rip sound of something sharp being torn through glove soft leather. That she found surprising. He’d never actually destroyed the couch before…she called the designer who’d redecorated his office a few years before. She’d gained a solid reputation as a result of the work she’d done for Lex, and owed Lex for it. Plus, they’d concluded business on very good terms, and she knew Lex had had a brief affair with the woman. She thought he could use some recreation.
She was a good secretary. ///
*****
VII
A package arrives on Lex’s yacht. The package is unremarkable. It’s the usual overnight shipping envelope. The return address is obviously false, but Lex will have his aides check it anyway. He heads to his cabin, and tells his very efficient secretary he wants no interruptions. He opens the box inside it, not certain what he’ll find. It’s big enough to contain the cremated remains of any person…was it be possible to cremate Superman? Once he died, did it remove the spell that made him magically strong?
In the box is a note.
‘There’s more. ‘
There is also an envelope. In the envelope is a folded piece of red fabric. He unfolds it, feeling along it’s edge, an odd sort of grit against his fingertips. The center of the square holds the world’s most recognized logo.
What the hell does ‘more’ mean? Fuck, he hates drama so fucking much. He snarls at the square cut from Superman’s cape. It appears he’s a victim of some seriously twisted fucking performance art.
Several drinks and a messy blowjob later, he leans over the almost too lean brown body pressed against his, grabs his phone and calls that number. Again. He snorts. He doesn’t have a fork handy to stab himself repeatedly in the eye—this will have to do.
“Lex.” She sounds irritated. “This has to stop. This borders on harassment, you know.”
“Is it that awful to talk to me?”
Silence over the line. Martha was raised old school Society Metropolis: manners, manners, manners. “I…I’m sorry.”
Lex takes a moment to smile--that had to hurt. Martha wasn’t entirely correct when she said Lex wasn’t one to gloat…he’s just very private about it.
“I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand—what is it that you want from me? I have nothing to give you.”
“I just need to hear the voice of someone who…doesn’t care what they say to me.”
“Lex. Find people—real people.”
Lex lays back, the dead phone on his naked chest. Find people? People he could trust—enough to talk to? He sighed. Well, maybe he shouldn’t have shut down the cloning project…that at least would have given him someone to talk to, someone who understood, he could trust…Dear Departed Lionel came to mind, and he laughed. Sure. Like he could even trust himself.
/// He climbed the stairs to the deck, and watched the waves churn and roll away from the stern of the yacht. The smell of the ocean filled his nostrils, crisp and salt and cleansing. The white robe he wore whipped in the stiff breeze and he leaned his head back and…breathed. Long deep breaths. He was fine. He wasn’t alone—there were people here, people in his bed, his office….people who broke their necks trying to do whatever he asked. That woman was wrong. ///
******
VIII
The next package wasn’t long in coming. He received it in his comfortably redecorated office. The messenger was thoroughly examined, both psychically and by the various security devices in the building. Many of them are capable of detecting alien life forms. Those functions have never been used—an alien has never stepped into LexCorpTower.
He found a disc in the package. He sighed peevishly. This type of thing was so tiresome. He’d had no luck tracking the package from three days ago. Really, this sort of grandstanding villainy…he tapped the razor-sharp letter opener against the glass desktop. It was nearly as annoying as being accosted by mimes. If he could find where they came from…he tossed the opener idly and heard the satisfying ‘thock’ when it buried itself in the cork dartboard on the opposite wall. He slid the disc into his laptop, and waited. No doubt, this was going to be even more mysterious. Or monumentally idiotic.
There was a brief flailing, views of ceiling, wall, blank and featureless; no windows…a voice spoke. “We will sell the package to the highest bidder.” Lex rolled his eyes. “Given the history between you, we offer you first bid.” Lex tried to stifle his exclamation of irritation.
The camera panned inexpertly back, giving a view of a motionless figure on a long steel table, a table with raised sides. The type mortuaries used. The camera jerked and staggered closer, and Lex could make out black hair, a face bruised and crusted with black. Still in the suit, he saw. Streaks of black marred the blue and red.
It was Clark, all right. He was dead, certainly. There was no movement; no breath raised his chest…Lex chewed his lip, unnoticed. If brought to his attention, he’d deny doing it.
“We will deposit the package in the parking garage of LexCorp Tower, if you’re interested…the price at the moment is $60 million. Three days from now, it increases.” Lex frowned at the screen. This was too odd. The phone rang.
“Have you given it some thought?”
He sneered at the screen. What a surprise…“Why me? You could get more bidding on the open market. There are collectors of…everything.”
“You’re not interested. Fine--”
“Wait—yes.” Damn it. “All right. When?”
“Even exchange. Tomorrow evening.”
“That’s not enough time; I don’t have access to that amount--”
The voice chuckled, a hard, staticy sound. “Yes you do. Tomorrow.”
“All right.”
Lex threw the phone hard, and knocked the letter opener from the corkboard. They would have to die. Foremost for annoying him. He cursed. He should have stipulated any material concerning the package be part of the bargain…well. He’d just have to send cleaners in after.
*****
The transfer went smoothly—a stainless steel locker was transferred to a trolley, and was whisked to the freight elevator in the blink of an eye. Money smoothly transferred hands, and the unremarkable black van that delivered the goods was on it’s way out of Metropolis in minutes. Minutes later, of course, it was trailed by the exceptionally well trained and unquestionably loyal security that Lex employed—he’d learned his lesson in Smallville.
On a street in the port district of Metropolis, the van was stopped, searched, cleaned. The occupants were disposed of. The destination of the van was discovered, and also cleaned. A warehouse close to the water burned to the ground as the van was driven back to Metropolis.
******
IX
“Lex, we tracked all communications out of the warehouse. They had only made the offer to you. There were others in line but they seemed to bank on you buying the package, considering your former interest in it. I’m guessing they seemed to think it was a done deal.” Lee swung the chair facing Lex’s desk a bit. His black suit disappeared against the high black leather back of the chair, his pale face and white shirt seemed to float. Lex admired how flat and emotionless the man’s eyes were, no matter what they discussed.
“We took care of everyone involved. All materials surrounding the box are in the designated lab. The staff is waiting for you to direct them. By the way—it appears the entire impetus for the ‘robbery’ was to take and kill those people. The object was Superman all along.” He stood. “I think that they meant to incapacitate him, not kill him. There was a cage, and chains…I’m guessing, though. We won’t know more until you have the material examined. Is there any thing else?”
“No, Lee, thank you. Job well done.”
“Thanks Lex. I’ll recheck the job, but I’m confident that my men performed beyond expectations.”
“Be sure you thank them for me.” He stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “There’ll be bonuses, of course.”
Lee nodded, and left the office and Lex leaned his arms on the desk. So. All he had to do was give the word and his package would be unwrapped.
All the secrets he wanted were here, in his house, whenever he wanted. However he wanted.
Why the fuck was he reluctant to move? Damn it. He gripped the edge of his desk, pressing until his knuckles turned white.
He had Martha’s son. Had his body. Should he…he shook his head. What the fuck was he thinking?
He stood and stomped out of the office, startling his secretary. “Lex—what do you need?”
“I’m going out. Transfer important calls to me—and by important I mean earth shattering, understand?”
“Of course, Lex. Completely.”
*****
/// Sunlight lit the glass walled interior of The Greenroom, a favorite grill of Lex’s. Usually, sitting at his private table in the back made him feel…in control. The light flowed over the yellow plastered interior, made the painted walls glow golden, warmed the slate tiled floors…it reminded him of the green house at the castle and that thought was brand new and stunning. He’d never realized it before. The realization… horrified him. He looked around as if seeing the room for first time. For the first time, he realized that the feeling he experienced wasn’t control—it was anger and sorrow, iced over and contained.
Lex got up and walked out. ..///
He’s crossing Metropolis Park at a fast clip, his people jogging to keep him in sight at all times. He comes to an abrupt stop in front of the nearly completed memorial to Superman. It’s very reminiscent of Brancusi’s Bird in Flight, and has been criticized for being safe, unoriginal. But Lex likes it. There’s a tension, a yearning in the gigantic steel sculpture that maybe Clark never felt but Lex likes to think he did. A yearning to be free, to fly and fly and fly away…Lex sighs.
He’s made his decision.
He won’t tell Martha.
Not yet.
*****
X
When the signal’s given, the material from the site is gone over with a fine tooth comb—records of communication, the gun—the bullets—the idea turns out to be Lex’s own, scribbled on a note pad and forgotten but not by the ex-employee fired for sloppy research. Lex hisses in annoyance. The man is dead, and there’s no way he can criticize the team. They carried out his orders to the letter. Lex regrets being hasty.
The box is open, the sides folded down, and the body it contained is placed in a glass…well, coffin. Lex smiles. Snow White. And at the moment, Superman is just that. The skin Lex remembers as being gold, sun burnished, is pale as milk, his hair is midnight black and curls around his face—except where black blood crusts it into clumps and it’s pasted against his face. His lips look red as blood against the moon white of his skin. Here and there blood paints black spatters against his forehead, chin, around his ear. He looks closer and sees a black and green hole under his ear.
“That’s where the sliver went in. You can see some small punctures in his chest—see here where they penetrated the suit?”
Lex nods. “Any chance he’s still alive?” and curses inwardly. Any idiot could see it’s simply a corpse—but the degree of preservation is too remarkable. Cla—he really does look like he’s asleep.
The scientist smiles a little condescendingly until he feels the prickly ice of Lex’s stare. “Ah—he’s dead. Even though there are no visible signs of decay, he has no heartbeat. Using human normal standards he’s dead as a doornail.” The man smiles, risking life and limb, and goes on... “He is an ex-super hero. He is no more.” He is about to continue in what he certainly believes to be an amusing vein and Lex lays a single finger on his cuff, says, “If you value your…job…”
The swallow, as the finally totally aware man realizes how close he’s come to personal disaster, is audible. “Shall I—shall I--”
Lex nods. “Go ahead and start dissecting him.”
*****
The first thing they did was try to figure out how to take the suit off. The suit was made in sections, and was actually a sort of thin flexible armor. It couldn’t be cut. It couldn’t be stretched. There were odd depressions and bumps that seemed to correspond to fingertips and the scientists speculated that they were latches—the original team working on him had also come to that conclusion, but Superman’s hand pressed to them did nothing. They also found that blades constructed of kryptonite worked well to shear through the material when they could find no way at all to activate the latches. The grit on the edges of the square of cape already in Lex’s possession was from the worn edges of kryptonite shears.
Lex watched as they laid Clark bare. He felt vaguely dirty. Clark’s limbs flopped and slapped against the metal table as they cut, yanked and sawed at the suit, and slowly his body came into view and Lex thought as long as he and Clark had…known each other, he’d never seen him naked. No reason why he should of course…he’d seen Clark’s broad chest occasionally. He felt ridiculously startled to see whorls of black hair on his chest, his armpits--furring his legs. Clark had been…very young when he’d know him. Been friends with him. He’d been so very young…the hair on his chest trailed down, thinning and tapering until it ran in a black line to the patch at his groin, framing his penis. Clark’s.
Lex called a halt to the work for the day. Insisted Clark be covered before they shut work down for the day.
The body lay on the table with no one in attendance, alone except for the unblinking eye of the camera Lex had trained on the still pale form.
His phone rang, starlting him, he’d been so deep in thought staring at the corpse.
He glanced at the caller id and froze. It took an act of extreme will to answer, and to answer with a cheerful tone of voice. “Martha. This is unexpected—no one to treat like scum out your way?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Lex. I have something I want to tell you.”
Lex gasped, covered it with a cough. “Excuse me. You *want* to talk to me? I was under the impression that you wanted me dead and buried, with a band standing by so you could dance on my grave.” He was further startled by the chuckle she tried to smother.
“You can be quite as obnoxious as when you were a boy, Lex.” Her voice turned serious. “Lex, you assured me you didn’t kill him--”
“Martha--”
“Hush. I believe you. Now, I want you to find him. Bring him home.”
Lex’s chair nearly toppled backwards. He jumped to his feet and paced back and forth, unable to keep speaking calmly without moving, and moving fast. “What? What does that mean—find him?”
“You owe this family that much…”
Owe you? Martha. I hardly think I owe you anything; on the contrary, you owe me—
“Not money, you poor misguided, deluded idiot.”
“Martha? I’ve never been overly fond of being called an idiot…”
“I mean the pain you put my son through. The hurt. You trying to kill him.” She laughed bitterly. “He hated what you did. What you’d become. And in some corner of his mind blamed himself. And suffered for it. Every happiness he had was overshadowed with the hatred you held for him and his guilt. He felt he failed you.”
“Failed me? Guilt?” Lex laughed. “I’m a success—I have everything I want, and I’ll have more. I own half the city—one day I’ll own it all and Clark didn’t fail me, he motivated me to prove what I could do—to prove that I didn’t need anyone--*anyone* to help me succeed,” he hissed. “I got it all on my own.”
“Lex. I’m asking you.”
“Martha…are you saying…you need me? Need my help? Again?” Lex held his breath, waiting for her to disconnect, to curse him, scream at him, but she simply said, “Yes. I need your help”.
He swallowed. It took a moment for him to speak. “Of course, I’m happy to help you. Thank you for finally taking my offer.”
“Yes.” She hung up and Lex waited for the wave of well being that always overtook him when he’ crushed someone, made them sorry that they’d ever tried to beat a Luthor. The Luthor. All he felt was the vague sense of uncleanliness he’d felt when they stripped Clark’s body.
He walked out to the patio, and stared up at the evening sky. This was fine—Martha could have what she wanted, and he could have what he wanted. He’d find her son’s body—after he’d gotten everything he could from it. He would be doing as she asked. He’d bring her son home all right. He’d bring her everything that was left.
*****
XI
/// He’s on his knees, hands pressed on the long line of the back bowed in front of him. He pulls back, watching his dick slide back out, sheathed in latex and glossy with lube, red and thick…he pushes slowly back in, to hear the groan, feel the plush lock of hot flesh around him. He shakes…he can’t hold back anymore, and pushes harder, faster, breath whistles from his clenched teeth and the guy under him bucks back, “Faster---harder—you’re so good—“
“Hell yeah,” Lex grunts. “Hold on…” He pistons in and out, feels orgasm sliding up on him and wants to let go, wants to feel oblivion for a few seconds, he wants to fly…like a switch’s been flipped, he comes, the feeling of release he wants-- needs so much--fills him, it’s so intense that for one minute he’s afraid of it and then he’s pulled along helplessly, soaring on a hot wave that flings him panting, sweat covered and lead-limbed onto the bed.
“That was good.” He pulls himself upright, heavy muscle sliding and bunching under his smooth skin. He gets some satisfaction from knowing the guy he paid for is nearly licking his lips, watching him move around the room. Lex doesn’t bother putting on a robe—he knows he looks good and likes being looked at.
After the ‘date’ is gone, he’s on the phone to the lab, checking progress.
“Why haven’t you started the dissection yet…did I *say* I wanted to be present? Oh for…all right. I’ll be there shortly.” Idiots. He doesn’t want to be there, and hates that he doesn’t want to see the final humiliation his enemy can endure.
“I won, Clark,” he whispers to himself as he dresses. He chooses a dove gray suit, and finds himself going to the rear of his closet. On a lower shelf, he chooses a shirt of a color and cut he hasn’t worn for…five, six years at least. Lilac, a narrow cut, sleeves a little longer than is fashionable. It’s incredibly soft, when he lays his hand against the front, the material transmits the heat—seems to intensify it. It’s like feeling the ghost of a big, too hot hand…he shakes off the odd melancholy and finishes dressing.///
The mood in the lab is annoyingly upbeat, almost celebratory. And why not—the staff were about to delve into a self-proclaimed alien…how many people got to do that and get paid outrageously well for it?
He stood well back of the stainless steel table, Clark’s body mostly blocked by the team dressed in dark blue scrubs.
“We’ll remove the slivers, first. And then, we’ll open the chest. The blades on these knives are composed of a kryptonite annealed metal.” The head of the team, Dr. Frame, turned to Lex. “There’s more information about them but that’s certainly outside my field of expertise,” he said with a little chuckle.
Lex nodded, and they began. A set of forceps that looked like needle nosed pliers tipped with green explored the puncture sites. Lex was unpleasantly aware of the sound they made tearing flesh.
One splinter, then another dropped into the stainless tray a nurse held.
Clark’s head was tilted to the side and the puncture under his ear exposed. Dr. Frame went on in a drone, describing what he was doing for the recorders. The black smeared area was cleaned, and the puncture explored.
“I think I feel it—yep, that’s got it, locked on now,” the long sliver of black coated kryptonite was pulled out, and flashed briefly emerald in the light. It dropped with a sound like a chime into the stainless steel tray. “All right, let’s have the saw, and there…” the saw whirled through flesh, and began to enter bone and there was a noise.
“Aahhh…”
Lex started. What the fuck? The bone saw whined on, and the sound came again.
“Aaah..”
Lex began, “Wait a min--” and the body on the table jerked—the skin on its abdomen twitched like a horse trying to throw off flies.
“Stop!”
Shit…the team trying to dissect Superman scattered, as the dead man’s eyes leaked tears, and small sounds of distress leaked from it’s mouth.
Lex looked on in shock.
*Oh my god…Clark*
******
continued in part two
Author:Roxymissrose
Pairing:Lex/Clark
WIP:: 1/4
Rating:PG
Spoilers: none
Word Count:5468
Summary: Lex and Clark have such influence on each other, whether they know it or not.
Notes: This is the answer to the "A Clexian Tale" challenge. I finally answered it, almost six months later....
So dear I love him that with him all deaths I could endure, without him live no life.
John Milton
I
At five o clock in the afternoon, on an October Monday, a particularly brutal attack on the Metropolis international bank takes place. Hostages are taken, and shot—in front of cameras. They are prodded and bullied and frightened until they are screaming when the bullets smash into their foreheads.
One, two—a grandmother, a housewife, a waiter, the manager of the fast food place one block away…dead. The other hostages are frozen in horror and bladder emptying fear. The masked bandits—murderers--are entirely too amused.
Superman is called.
Superman is there in minutes, from the opposite side of the state. He comes ready to help. Do the justice thing.
He’s in the air over the bank in another minute, and bursting through the ceiling, flying at the hostage takers, in minute more. He smiles at the gun they train on him, and the lead bullets that explode out of the gun at high velocity strike him harmlessly in the chest.
The lead vaporizes on contact. The kryptonite slivers inside the lead casing lodge in the muscle of his chest. The one that kills Superman drills in under his ear as the impact throws his head back, and to the side.
There’s a terrible amount of blood, according to the remaining hostages.
“He fell to the ground, he made this terrible noise and—and--died.” This the gist of the interview that runs on all channels, all day long, for days. “He bled so much and dropped in front of me, and I could see the...the light—just go out of him, you know? Like he deflated, but not really. He just wasn’t in there anymore. So young—you know? He looked so young, not like this big super guy, you know? Almost…a kid…” At that point the bank teller being interviewed rushes off camera, and the sound cuts off. So his face becomes the most recognized face in the world, and it’s not forever linked to the sound of him throwing up violently behind the bank manager’s desk...
******
II
Lex Luthor. Businessman. Entrepreneur. Researcher. Killer.
Killer. Well, certainly not by his own hand, not anymore…but if Lex raises an eyebrow and frowns at, say, an obstinate individual, who stands in the way of a goal he wishes to achieve, a meddlesome someone he wishes to be rid of, it’s more than likely the wish will be made reality. Lex’s people do their level best to make Lex happy. His happiness is the sole business of great many thankful to be on his payroll.
Right now, Lex is not happy. Lex is furious. Lex is nearly speechless with rage. Already men in his employ scour the city, the country—looking for the perpetrator of this deed, this—abomination. The entire underworld knows—Superman belongs to him. Belonged.
He watches the footage playing in an endless, endless loop. The Man of Steel crashing to the ground in a bloody, ungraceful heap—the doughy young man gasping out the story of his death. Lex hates him most of all.
Decides not to kill him.
Instead, he wanders around the luxurious penthouse that he shares with his laptop. He wanders back and forth in front of the glass, floor to ceiling patio doors and thinks. Superman never set foot on that patio, never appeared at the glass doors. Never tried to kill him, not in the way Lex tried to kill Superman. Maybe he should have. Maybe he wouldn’t have looked so—defenseless, apparent invulnerability aside…
Time for action was at hand. “The time for talking is over. I want a thorough investigation,” he says into a slim black phone pressed against his cheek. “Thorough. You understand the meaning? I want to know how these bastards acquired the kryptonite—only myself and the government have access to kryptonite—and even the government has to come to me.”
“Yes, we’re starting from the inside, and working outward.” the voice responds. “If there’s information to be had, you’ll have it…but…Lex. There’s been no word yet. Not even a rumble.”
“Interesting. Well, you have more means of gathering information than the media. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Lex.”
Lex lays the phone on the table and thinks. Why? More importantly, how could Superman have succumbed to such a…stupidly simple plan?
He takes a meandering stroll about and ends up back at the little wet bar tucked in a cabinet at the rear of his office. He makes and swallows a drink. Several, while sitting at his desk and thinking—unproductively. *Shit. Shit.* Lex stands up and slams his glass down, slopping a little liquid over the glass tabletop.
*****
III
// Clark Kent, reporter for the Daily Planet—a well know and respected reporter for the Daily Planet, has been missing for two weeks. He’s presumed dead, along with ten others, caught up in the storm that ripped across the Atlantic seaboard, tore miles of beach away in Atlantic City and capsized the fishing boat bearing the lost. //
The authorities search for a while, but finally admit that the bodies are unrecoverable There’s a plaque on the boardwalk a month later, to commemorate the bravery of those who basically, were stupid enough not to evacuate when told to, or those whose makeup demanded they be there, to offer help to their neighbors any way they could...
Human nature.
****
IV
/// Lex dithered. It was a thorn in his side. It made him—crazy. But still…dither. He drove to the office, and worked on the way there. He worked in the office, pointedly did not look nervously at the phone. He worked. He sowed the seeds of empires. He plowed under those stupid enough not to know that growth always involved discomfort, progress involved a little pain. And he dithered. ///
Lex Luthor strolled through Metropolis Park, enjoying a surprisingly warm breeze for late November. There were a few days left before Thanksgiving, and of course the Christmas ornaments hung like pendulous garish fruit from every possible protrusion. Lex wasn’t letting that destroy his mood, however.
His mood had been sour to begin with.
He briefly contemplated stumbling and clutching his chest, just for the amusement value of seeing the all the men blended into the crowd come running to earn their paychecks…but that was beneath him. Lex stopped, and here and there through the park men and women stopped with identical looks of greyhound readiness. He glanced about. People paid no attention whatsoever to their surroundings. The crowd moved on, oblivious to well trained death…except for one young man, probably college aged, who looked startled and nervous. Hmm. Lex made a note. Recruitment can never start too early.
Finally, he took a deep breath, and dialed a number he hated to admit he’d never forgotten. A number he could dial in his sleep, still. The phone rang and rang, and at last a voice came on the line.
“Yes?” Flat, unemotional.
“Martha, I…” Bloody fucking HELL! Why the fuck was he a child again?
“Yes. Lex. Mr. Luthor. Can I help you?”
“Lex, please. I—I—hoped that I could help you in some--”
“Did you do it?” A whip crack of hatred, so bitter, so sharp, Lex flinched involuntarily.
“No! No. I…would not have the unutterable gall to call you, if…I’m sorry. Truly sorry. I know that Clark…Clark helped out so much after his father died. I just wanted to offer…my help.”
“Well. Now you have. And I have much to attend to and…” Her voice hitched.
“Martha—I never--”
“Lex, I have to go now. Thank you,” she said. “It’s a small measure of…comfort… to know my son’s former best friend didn’t orchestrate his death. No matter what you’ve become, I know you’d never have called other wise. It’s not in you to…gloat.”
Lex stared at the silent phone cradled in his palm. It occurred to him that they weren’t talking about Clark. He rolled his shoulders and watched the swift passage of gray clouds across the sun. The air smelled like snow, and he was briefly sad, briefly missed his mother.
Well.
Martha knew he knew. How? He strode along briskly, gravely nodding to the people who recognized him. That meant Clark knew. Lex stopped and let one of the bodyguards open the limo door for him, slid inside. He leaned his head back against the warm soft leather of the seat. He sighed.
Clark had known.
*****
V
Lex is flying back to the States from a week long series of meetings in Shanghai that had been exhausting and much less than entertaining. It had, however, been lucrative, and he’s in less of a foul mood than usual. The lights in the cabin are dim, the scotch is excellent, and he’s just about to slip his shoes off and relax on the seductively beckoning bed when his phone rings.
He doesn’t recognize the caller and considers transferring it to his aide but something makes him answer.
“Mr. Luthor?” an electronically altered voice speaks his name, even altered it sounds impatient. Lex forces a tone of amused effrontery. “How did you get this number? I obviously don’t know you. Unless this is a prank—
“We have something you may want to buy. Proof of it’s worth will be shipped to LexCorp in a few days.”
Lex tosses the silent phone to the bed. He hates mystery. Hates it. He especially hates those who insist on being pointlessly mysterious. Pointless drama is a crime.
There’s been no results from his investigations. Blood has been spilled, but occasionally results demand a little sacrifice. He knows his employees have worked hard, he knows that they think they’ve left no stone unturned. But he knows without a doubt this phone call was about that investigation.
There’s a distinct possibility that the empty memorial being constructed in Metropolis Square was going to be tenanted after all. Lex shrugs off his jacket, loosens his tie, and lays down on the vast yielding surface of the bed. He lays splayed out, legs wide, arms wide, staring at the ceiling. He remembers lying like this on the rough barn floor, and Clark walking around him, reciting his lesson, laughing down into his face…his eyes were so green and warm then, so full of…well, friendship…friendship. He sighs. Even after all these years…he presses the heel of his hand against the thickening length trapped against his hip. God.
*****
VI
“Lex. Why are you calling here?”
“Martha. Martha…I just. I don’t know.”
“Let me guess. You feel alone; you looked around and found you have no friends and…guilt is a huge motivator, Lex. Just as big as greed.”
“Do you think that’s what I am? Greedy?”
“I saw the way you looked at Clark. Back then.”
He hung up and methodically, violently, trashed his office.
/// Outside the mahogany office doors, his secretary pensively listened to the sound of crystal smashing, fabric tearing, the punch-rip sound of something sharp being torn through glove soft leather. That she found surprising. He’d never actually destroyed the couch before…she called the designer who’d redecorated his office a few years before. She’d gained a solid reputation as a result of the work she’d done for Lex, and owed Lex for it. Plus, they’d concluded business on very good terms, and she knew Lex had had a brief affair with the woman. She thought he could use some recreation.
She was a good secretary. ///
*****
VII
A package arrives on Lex’s yacht. The package is unremarkable. It’s the usual overnight shipping envelope. The return address is obviously false, but Lex will have his aides check it anyway. He heads to his cabin, and tells his very efficient secretary he wants no interruptions. He opens the box inside it, not certain what he’ll find. It’s big enough to contain the cremated remains of any person…was it be possible to cremate Superman? Once he died, did it remove the spell that made him magically strong?
In the box is a note.
‘There’s more. ‘
There is also an envelope. In the envelope is a folded piece of red fabric. He unfolds it, feeling along it’s edge, an odd sort of grit against his fingertips. The center of the square holds the world’s most recognized logo.
What the hell does ‘more’ mean? Fuck, he hates drama so fucking much. He snarls at the square cut from Superman’s cape. It appears he’s a victim of some seriously twisted fucking performance art.
Several drinks and a messy blowjob later, he leans over the almost too lean brown body pressed against his, grabs his phone and calls that number. Again. He snorts. He doesn’t have a fork handy to stab himself repeatedly in the eye—this will have to do.
“Lex.” She sounds irritated. “This has to stop. This borders on harassment, you know.”
“Is it that awful to talk to me?”
Silence over the line. Martha was raised old school Society Metropolis: manners, manners, manners. “I…I’m sorry.”
Lex takes a moment to smile--that had to hurt. Martha wasn’t entirely correct when she said Lex wasn’t one to gloat…he’s just very private about it.
“I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand—what is it that you want from me? I have nothing to give you.”
“I just need to hear the voice of someone who…doesn’t care what they say to me.”
“Lex. Find people—real people.”
Lex lays back, the dead phone on his naked chest. Find people? People he could trust—enough to talk to? He sighed. Well, maybe he shouldn’t have shut down the cloning project…that at least would have given him someone to talk to, someone who understood, he could trust…Dear Departed Lionel came to mind, and he laughed. Sure. Like he could even trust himself.
/// He climbed the stairs to the deck, and watched the waves churn and roll away from the stern of the yacht. The smell of the ocean filled his nostrils, crisp and salt and cleansing. The white robe he wore whipped in the stiff breeze and he leaned his head back and…breathed. Long deep breaths. He was fine. He wasn’t alone—there were people here, people in his bed, his office….people who broke their necks trying to do whatever he asked. That woman was wrong. ///
******
VIII
The next package wasn’t long in coming. He received it in his comfortably redecorated office. The messenger was thoroughly examined, both psychically and by the various security devices in the building. Many of them are capable of detecting alien life forms. Those functions have never been used—an alien has never stepped into LexCorpTower.
He found a disc in the package. He sighed peevishly. This type of thing was so tiresome. He’d had no luck tracking the package from three days ago. Really, this sort of grandstanding villainy…he tapped the razor-sharp letter opener against the glass desktop. It was nearly as annoying as being accosted by mimes. If he could find where they came from…he tossed the opener idly and heard the satisfying ‘thock’ when it buried itself in the cork dartboard on the opposite wall. He slid the disc into his laptop, and waited. No doubt, this was going to be even more mysterious. Or monumentally idiotic.
There was a brief flailing, views of ceiling, wall, blank and featureless; no windows…a voice spoke. “We will sell the package to the highest bidder.” Lex rolled his eyes. “Given the history between you, we offer you first bid.” Lex tried to stifle his exclamation of irritation.
The camera panned inexpertly back, giving a view of a motionless figure on a long steel table, a table with raised sides. The type mortuaries used. The camera jerked and staggered closer, and Lex could make out black hair, a face bruised and crusted with black. Still in the suit, he saw. Streaks of black marred the blue and red.
It was Clark, all right. He was dead, certainly. There was no movement; no breath raised his chest…Lex chewed his lip, unnoticed. If brought to his attention, he’d deny doing it.
“We will deposit the package in the parking garage of LexCorp Tower, if you’re interested…the price at the moment is $60 million. Three days from now, it increases.” Lex frowned at the screen. This was too odd. The phone rang.
“Have you given it some thought?”
He sneered at the screen. What a surprise…“Why me? You could get more bidding on the open market. There are collectors of…everything.”
“You’re not interested. Fine--”
“Wait—yes.” Damn it. “All right. When?”
“Even exchange. Tomorrow evening.”
“That’s not enough time; I don’t have access to that amount--”
The voice chuckled, a hard, staticy sound. “Yes you do. Tomorrow.”
“All right.”
Lex threw the phone hard, and knocked the letter opener from the corkboard. They would have to die. Foremost for annoying him. He cursed. He should have stipulated any material concerning the package be part of the bargain…well. He’d just have to send cleaners in after.
*****
The transfer went smoothly—a stainless steel locker was transferred to a trolley, and was whisked to the freight elevator in the blink of an eye. Money smoothly transferred hands, and the unremarkable black van that delivered the goods was on it’s way out of Metropolis in minutes. Minutes later, of course, it was trailed by the exceptionally well trained and unquestionably loyal security that Lex employed—he’d learned his lesson in Smallville.
On a street in the port district of Metropolis, the van was stopped, searched, cleaned. The occupants were disposed of. The destination of the van was discovered, and also cleaned. A warehouse close to the water burned to the ground as the van was driven back to Metropolis.
******
IX
“Lex, we tracked all communications out of the warehouse. They had only made the offer to you. There were others in line but they seemed to bank on you buying the package, considering your former interest in it. I’m guessing they seemed to think it was a done deal.” Lee swung the chair facing Lex’s desk a bit. His black suit disappeared against the high black leather back of the chair, his pale face and white shirt seemed to float. Lex admired how flat and emotionless the man’s eyes were, no matter what they discussed.
“We took care of everyone involved. All materials surrounding the box are in the designated lab. The staff is waiting for you to direct them. By the way—it appears the entire impetus for the ‘robbery’ was to take and kill those people. The object was Superman all along.” He stood. “I think that they meant to incapacitate him, not kill him. There was a cage, and chains…I’m guessing, though. We won’t know more until you have the material examined. Is there any thing else?”
“No, Lee, thank you. Job well done.”
“Thanks Lex. I’ll recheck the job, but I’m confident that my men performed beyond expectations.”
“Be sure you thank them for me.” He stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “There’ll be bonuses, of course.”
Lee nodded, and left the office and Lex leaned his arms on the desk. So. All he had to do was give the word and his package would be unwrapped.
All the secrets he wanted were here, in his house, whenever he wanted. However he wanted.
Why the fuck was he reluctant to move? Damn it. He gripped the edge of his desk, pressing until his knuckles turned white.
He had Martha’s son. Had his body. Should he…he shook his head. What the fuck was he thinking?
He stood and stomped out of the office, startling his secretary. “Lex—what do you need?”
“I’m going out. Transfer important calls to me—and by important I mean earth shattering, understand?”
“Of course, Lex. Completely.”
*****
/// Sunlight lit the glass walled interior of The Greenroom, a favorite grill of Lex’s. Usually, sitting at his private table in the back made him feel…in control. The light flowed over the yellow plastered interior, made the painted walls glow golden, warmed the slate tiled floors…it reminded him of the green house at the castle and that thought was brand new and stunning. He’d never realized it before. The realization… horrified him. He looked around as if seeing the room for first time. For the first time, he realized that the feeling he experienced wasn’t control—it was anger and sorrow, iced over and contained.
Lex got up and walked out. ..///
He’s crossing Metropolis Park at a fast clip, his people jogging to keep him in sight at all times. He comes to an abrupt stop in front of the nearly completed memorial to Superman. It’s very reminiscent of Brancusi’s Bird in Flight, and has been criticized for being safe, unoriginal. But Lex likes it. There’s a tension, a yearning in the gigantic steel sculpture that maybe Clark never felt but Lex likes to think he did. A yearning to be free, to fly and fly and fly away…Lex sighs.
He’s made his decision.
He won’t tell Martha.
Not yet.
*****
X
When the signal’s given, the material from the site is gone over with a fine tooth comb—records of communication, the gun—the bullets—the idea turns out to be Lex’s own, scribbled on a note pad and forgotten but not by the ex-employee fired for sloppy research. Lex hisses in annoyance. The man is dead, and there’s no way he can criticize the team. They carried out his orders to the letter. Lex regrets being hasty.
The box is open, the sides folded down, and the body it contained is placed in a glass…well, coffin. Lex smiles. Snow White. And at the moment, Superman is just that. The skin Lex remembers as being gold, sun burnished, is pale as milk, his hair is midnight black and curls around his face—except where black blood crusts it into clumps and it’s pasted against his face. His lips look red as blood against the moon white of his skin. Here and there blood paints black spatters against his forehead, chin, around his ear. He looks closer and sees a black and green hole under his ear.
“That’s where the sliver went in. You can see some small punctures in his chest—see here where they penetrated the suit?”
Lex nods. “Any chance he’s still alive?” and curses inwardly. Any idiot could see it’s simply a corpse—but the degree of preservation is too remarkable. Cla—he really does look like he’s asleep.
The scientist smiles a little condescendingly until he feels the prickly ice of Lex’s stare. “Ah—he’s dead. Even though there are no visible signs of decay, he has no heartbeat. Using human normal standards he’s dead as a doornail.” The man smiles, risking life and limb, and goes on... “He is an ex-super hero. He is no more.” He is about to continue in what he certainly believes to be an amusing vein and Lex lays a single finger on his cuff, says, “If you value your…job…”
The swallow, as the finally totally aware man realizes how close he’s come to personal disaster, is audible. “Shall I—shall I--”
Lex nods. “Go ahead and start dissecting him.”
*****
The first thing they did was try to figure out how to take the suit off. The suit was made in sections, and was actually a sort of thin flexible armor. It couldn’t be cut. It couldn’t be stretched. There were odd depressions and bumps that seemed to correspond to fingertips and the scientists speculated that they were latches—the original team working on him had also come to that conclusion, but Superman’s hand pressed to them did nothing. They also found that blades constructed of kryptonite worked well to shear through the material when they could find no way at all to activate the latches. The grit on the edges of the square of cape already in Lex’s possession was from the worn edges of kryptonite shears.
Lex watched as they laid Clark bare. He felt vaguely dirty. Clark’s limbs flopped and slapped against the metal table as they cut, yanked and sawed at the suit, and slowly his body came into view and Lex thought as long as he and Clark had…known each other, he’d never seen him naked. No reason why he should of course…he’d seen Clark’s broad chest occasionally. He felt ridiculously startled to see whorls of black hair on his chest, his armpits--furring his legs. Clark had been…very young when he’d know him. Been friends with him. He’d been so very young…the hair on his chest trailed down, thinning and tapering until it ran in a black line to the patch at his groin, framing his penis. Clark’s.
Lex called a halt to the work for the day. Insisted Clark be covered before they shut work down for the day.
The body lay on the table with no one in attendance, alone except for the unblinking eye of the camera Lex had trained on the still pale form.
His phone rang, starlting him, he’d been so deep in thought staring at the corpse.
He glanced at the caller id and froze. It took an act of extreme will to answer, and to answer with a cheerful tone of voice. “Martha. This is unexpected—no one to treat like scum out your way?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Lex. I have something I want to tell you.”
Lex gasped, covered it with a cough. “Excuse me. You *want* to talk to me? I was under the impression that you wanted me dead and buried, with a band standing by so you could dance on my grave.” He was further startled by the chuckle she tried to smother.
“You can be quite as obnoxious as when you were a boy, Lex.” Her voice turned serious. “Lex, you assured me you didn’t kill him--”
“Martha--”
“Hush. I believe you. Now, I want you to find him. Bring him home.”
Lex’s chair nearly toppled backwards. He jumped to his feet and paced back and forth, unable to keep speaking calmly without moving, and moving fast. “What? What does that mean—find him?”
“You owe this family that much…”
Owe you? Martha. I hardly think I owe you anything; on the contrary, you owe me—
“Not money, you poor misguided, deluded idiot.”
“Martha? I’ve never been overly fond of being called an idiot…”
“I mean the pain you put my son through. The hurt. You trying to kill him.” She laughed bitterly. “He hated what you did. What you’d become. And in some corner of his mind blamed himself. And suffered for it. Every happiness he had was overshadowed with the hatred you held for him and his guilt. He felt he failed you.”
“Failed me? Guilt?” Lex laughed. “I’m a success—I have everything I want, and I’ll have more. I own half the city—one day I’ll own it all and Clark didn’t fail me, he motivated me to prove what I could do—to prove that I didn’t need anyone--*anyone* to help me succeed,” he hissed. “I got it all on my own.”
“Lex. I’m asking you.”
“Martha…are you saying…you need me? Need my help? Again?” Lex held his breath, waiting for her to disconnect, to curse him, scream at him, but she simply said, “Yes. I need your help”.
He swallowed. It took a moment for him to speak. “Of course, I’m happy to help you. Thank you for finally taking my offer.”
“Yes.” She hung up and Lex waited for the wave of well being that always overtook him when he’ crushed someone, made them sorry that they’d ever tried to beat a Luthor. The Luthor. All he felt was the vague sense of uncleanliness he’d felt when they stripped Clark’s body.
He walked out to the patio, and stared up at the evening sky. This was fine—Martha could have what she wanted, and he could have what he wanted. He’d find her son’s body—after he’d gotten everything he could from it. He would be doing as she asked. He’d bring her son home all right. He’d bring her everything that was left.
*****
XI
/// He’s on his knees, hands pressed on the long line of the back bowed in front of him. He pulls back, watching his dick slide back out, sheathed in latex and glossy with lube, red and thick…he pushes slowly back in, to hear the groan, feel the plush lock of hot flesh around him. He shakes…he can’t hold back anymore, and pushes harder, faster, breath whistles from his clenched teeth and the guy under him bucks back, “Faster---harder—you’re so good—“
“Hell yeah,” Lex grunts. “Hold on…” He pistons in and out, feels orgasm sliding up on him and wants to let go, wants to feel oblivion for a few seconds, he wants to fly…like a switch’s been flipped, he comes, the feeling of release he wants-- needs so much--fills him, it’s so intense that for one minute he’s afraid of it and then he’s pulled along helplessly, soaring on a hot wave that flings him panting, sweat covered and lead-limbed onto the bed.
“That was good.” He pulls himself upright, heavy muscle sliding and bunching under his smooth skin. He gets some satisfaction from knowing the guy he paid for is nearly licking his lips, watching him move around the room. Lex doesn’t bother putting on a robe—he knows he looks good and likes being looked at.
After the ‘date’ is gone, he’s on the phone to the lab, checking progress.
“Why haven’t you started the dissection yet…did I *say* I wanted to be present? Oh for…all right. I’ll be there shortly.” Idiots. He doesn’t want to be there, and hates that he doesn’t want to see the final humiliation his enemy can endure.
“I won, Clark,” he whispers to himself as he dresses. He chooses a dove gray suit, and finds himself going to the rear of his closet. On a lower shelf, he chooses a shirt of a color and cut he hasn’t worn for…five, six years at least. Lilac, a narrow cut, sleeves a little longer than is fashionable. It’s incredibly soft, when he lays his hand against the front, the material transmits the heat—seems to intensify it. It’s like feeling the ghost of a big, too hot hand…he shakes off the odd melancholy and finishes dressing.///
The mood in the lab is annoyingly upbeat, almost celebratory. And why not—the staff were about to delve into a self-proclaimed alien…how many people got to do that and get paid outrageously well for it?
He stood well back of the stainless steel table, Clark’s body mostly blocked by the team dressed in dark blue scrubs.
“We’ll remove the slivers, first. And then, we’ll open the chest. The blades on these knives are composed of a kryptonite annealed metal.” The head of the team, Dr. Frame, turned to Lex. “There’s more information about them but that’s certainly outside my field of expertise,” he said with a little chuckle.
Lex nodded, and they began. A set of forceps that looked like needle nosed pliers tipped with green explored the puncture sites. Lex was unpleasantly aware of the sound they made tearing flesh.
One splinter, then another dropped into the stainless tray a nurse held.
Clark’s head was tilted to the side and the puncture under his ear exposed. Dr. Frame went on in a drone, describing what he was doing for the recorders. The black smeared area was cleaned, and the puncture explored.
“I think I feel it—yep, that’s got it, locked on now,” the long sliver of black coated kryptonite was pulled out, and flashed briefly emerald in the light. It dropped with a sound like a chime into the stainless steel tray. “All right, let’s have the saw, and there…” the saw whirled through flesh, and began to enter bone and there was a noise.
“Aahhh…”
Lex started. What the fuck? The bone saw whined on, and the sound came again.
“Aaah..”
Lex began, “Wait a min--” and the body on the table jerked—the skin on its abdomen twitched like a horse trying to throw off flies.
“Stop!”
Shit…the team trying to dissect Superman scattered, as the dead man’s eyes leaked tears, and small sounds of distress leaked from it’s mouth.
Lex looked on in shock.
*Oh my god…Clark*
******
continued in part two
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